James sloshed water around the bath, rinsing off the cleanser he’d scrubbed in. He wiped down the tiles around the shower and poured bleach into the toilet bowl. He cleaned the sink and swiped halfheartedly at the taps.
He hated housework, hated the sheer pointlessness of it all. You cleaned everything, and it got dirty again, and you cleaned it again. The mind-numbing boredom of it all, the grinding monotony of it. He’d been happy to leave all that to Frances, and she hadn’t complained. It had made perfect sense to James—he’d been out working all day, she’d opted to stay at home and keep house and look after Charlie.
Now, of course, James was doing everything. Working nine-to-five with the rest of the rat race, coming home and sorting the damn house. Cleaning, cooking, washing, ironing—somehow it all got done, albeit in his slapdash, amateurish way. The dust was ignored where he could get away with it, cobwebs gathered in corners and trailed from ceilings of lesser-used rooms. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cleaned a fridge, or defrosted a freezer.
His grasp of ironing was precarious. He’d lost count of the cotton shirts he scorched before his discovery of synthetic fabrics that felt awful but never needed ironing. For everything else he kept the iron on its lowest setting. Less effective, but far safer.
Laundry was another disaster area, colors running willy-nilly into one another until he learned what went together in the machine and what definitely didn’t. A wool sweater of Charlie’s didn’t survive its first wash, barely big enough for any of her dolls afterwards. Like the iron, the washing machine temperature was set to just above cool, and rarely moved.
James’s efforts at cooking were marginally more successful, thanks to a book he’d been given as a joke Christmas present by Frances, just a few months before her disappearance. Cooking for Dummies, it was called, and James had laughed and put it aside—and afterwards it had become his bible.
This morning they’d had French toast, which seemed to have become their regular Saturday breakfast, and this evening he was planning a vegetable omelette. He wrote a shopping list in his head as he mopped the bathroom floor.
“Dad.”
He looked up. Charlie stood in the hall, holding up two halves of a plate. “It fell out of my hands when I was drying it.”
James dropped his mop and took the pieces from her. “Don’t pick up broken stuff, poppy—you could cut yourself. Just come and tell me, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And you didn’t have to dry them.”
“But I wanted to help you,” she said, and his heart turned over. She was a good kid, she was turning out fine, despite his parental fumblings, despite their awful tragedy.
“Tell you what, let’s go to the lake when I finish the jobs,” he said. High time they saw it, and the day was fine.
Her small face lit up. “Can we bring a picnic?”
“Of course we can—have a look and see what we have in the fridge.”
“And can we go to the park tomorrow?”
He smiled. “Yes, if you want.”
“Yaaay!”
She spun around the hall, the broken plate forgotten. So easy to make her happy. He wondered how long that would last.
—————
The girl wasn’t really trying to hide what she was doing. Maybe she didn’t realize that you weren’t supposed to pick flowers in a public park. Audrey wondered whether she should say anything. Could she point out politely, in a nonconfrontational way, that the flowers had been planted for the enjoyment of everyone?
The girl wasn’t taking very many though, just the odd one here and there. She wasn’t leaving any gaps in the display. And Audrey was well aware that her remarks, however well meaning, could be resented. Someone who looked quite harmless, like this girl in her baggy skirt and long cardigan, could turn on you and become quite nasty.
And there was a little boy with her, which you had to take into account too. He might be upset if Audrey intervened, she might startle him if she approached them. Such a small, pale little child, no bit of life about him at all.
Audrey would leave them alone. What were a few flowers? It wasn’t as if the girl were snatching handbags or breaking into houses.
She pulled gently on Dolly’s leash and walked on.
—————
Irene waited until Martin’s program had begun before opening her sketch pad and pulling her pencil quietly from the little zipped case she kept it in. She hated using the charcoal, blackening fingers and clothes and anything you touched afterwards. Luckily, Audrey left it up to her students to use whichever medium they preferred.
From her position on the smaller of the two couches Martin’s profile was clearly visible to Irene, and she could work unobserved by him. She sketched him in quickly, trying to remember Audrey’s instructions. He leaned back against the couch, hands resting loosely across his abdomen as he watched the television screen.
His lips were parted, a tiny space between them. His long legs extended, knees bent slightly, one ankle resting on the other. He wore sweatpants and a T-shirt, socks but no shoes. At one stage he reached up to rub under his nose with an index finger.
Irene mapped in the overall shape of her husband. She positioned his head, indicated the angle his torso made against the back of the couch, scribbled in his arms, his pelvis, his legs. She regarded the drawing, and decided it was what Audrey had asked for: a quick pose with no detail.
She turned a page and studied what she could see of Martin’s face. She drew the curve of his cheek, the upward tilt of his top lip, the line of his near-side eyelash, the globe of his eyeball. She rounded out his head and sketched in his chin, added his ear and shaded in his hair.
The man in her drawing looked nothing like Martin. Her proportions were off, his features all wrong, his nose too long, his eye too small. She turned a page and began again, and her second attempt was only marginally better.
She tried his hands, and then his feet. By the time his program ended, ninety minutes later, she’d filled a dozen pages with her useless, yearning drawings.
He glanced across as he picked up the remote control. “Want to watch anything?”
Irene shook her head.
He noticed her sketch pad. “What are you at?”
Irene closed the book. “Nothing much, just scribbling.”
—————
“How you want me?” Pilar lay on the couch. “Like this?”
“Yes, okay.” Zarek’s charcoal flew across the page. Pilar lay placidly, humming a tune Zarek didn’t recognize. He mapped her form in quickly.
“Okay,” he said, “now you change.”
Pilar lifted her head. “Change? You finish so quick?” She sat up. “I see.”
Zarek held out the pad.
Pilar regarded it doubtfully. “This is me?”
“Just quickly,” Zarek told her. “Is short pose, no small detail.”
“Where is face?”
“No face with short pose,” he explained. “Just some shape and line.” He turned the page. “Now you sit, please. Just few minutes.”
Pilar sat stiffly on the couch, arms folded, a small crease in the skin between her eyes. No humming.
Zarek sketched quickly. “If you want,” he said, “I do better drawing of you another day.” He assumed next week’s homework would involve a more detailed study.
“With face?”
“Yes, with all things.”
“And color?”
“Yes, if you want.”
She considered. “Yes, I like.” She thought some more. “I wear my new dress. And hair up.”
“Okay.”
“And not on couch; outside, in garden.”
“Okay.” He looked up. “I finish now, thank you.”
Better stop before she thought of anything else.
—————
“A gym? You?” His wife laughed. “That’s a good one.”
The mechanic pulled off his T-shirt. “I’m serious.” He balled it up and aimed it at the laundry basket in the corner of the bedroom. “They’re offering free workouts, not every day you get something for nothing.”
She plumped up her pillow, still smiling. “Yeah, but a workout—when have you ever gone near a gym?”
He unzipped his jeans and let them drop and stepped out of them. “First time for everything. Just thought I’d give it a go, that’s all.”
“Fine—go ahead. Just don’t come crying to me when you can’t walk the next day.”
He pulled off his underpants and stood, hands on hips, before her. “Want to draw me?”
She giggled. “Not just now, thanks.”
He lifted the duvet and slid in beside her and slipped a finger under the strap of her nightdress. He pictured the rich blonde woman in bed. Bet she wears nothing at all. “Exercise gives you more energy,” he said softly, sliding the straps off her shoulders. Bet she’d love this, bet she’s gagging for it. “You won’t be able to keep up with me,” he murmured, easing the nightdress down, imagining other, fuller breasts. Bet she’d like my hands on her, bet I’d drive her wild. “I’ll drive you wild,” he whispered. “I’ll be after you day and night.”
His wife drew in her breath as he dipped his head. “In that case,” she said, her hands gripping his dark hair, “forget the free workout—just join up.”